God Save the King of New Orleans
by lenina20
Summary: Imagine this as the Season 2 finale of The Originals: as Mystic Falls faces annihilation, Klaus and Caroline reunite in New Orleans.


**a/n: hello, my readers!**_  
_

**First of all, thanks again for reading and reviewing 'we are infinite' - it means the world to know you're enjoying it. I'll be back with that story soon, but as of now I needed to write a little spin-off fic to deal with the bad news because if I can control it, then it can't hurt me. **

**I hope you will like my take on the KC reunion in New Orleans!**

* * *

_there's an angel on the stairs_;

-o-

The bar smells of sweat and alcohol and, right underneath, the sickly sweet scent of blood bled out willingly—from warm and slick-with-sweat wrists and necks, slit open for the night walkers crawling across the enchanted city to have a taste.

Damon was right, after all. New Orleans is the place to be these days.

It has flowered under his reign—brimming with darkness and blood and the barely repressed violence they all secretly thrive on. Underground fighting, blood money, dark magic contained in the b-sides of nature. It's his kingdom, after all. At last. And they, the crowds—they are bound to please their majesty in his court of endless pleasure, wanton music, sinful art.

So the whispers whistle.

His smell pervades the air everywhere she breathes—a hallowed memory she hasn't yet been able to shake off completely. He's here tonight, of course. He's everywhere at once—it's one of his many powers. But right now he stands behind the bar stool where she sits and twirls, unsurprised that it hasn't taken him longer than a night (_an hour_) to find her.

The name, whispered soft and trembling like a curse, it's all it takes for the world to fade.

_Caroline._

The sultry voice rippling from the tired cords of the sensual singer swinging on the stage vanishes in a painful intake of breath, filled with the thick odour of forbidden tar and nicotine.

She hates it—how much she's fucking missed him.

* * *

(_as if you'd even care_);

-o-

She'd been standing by his ridiculously enormous car as he packed away the last box—containing paintings, she knows. Drawings of her—she had ignored.

(She's been to his house, several times.

Only the art was gone. The clothes and furniture and _things_ remain in his wake, waiting unchangeable, stuck in time in a haunted house. A bitter reminder of herself.

Waiting. Waiting. Waiting.

He'd been expecting to be back someday, and his mansion would be waiting. Not Caroline. She wouldn't be standing there for him, frozen in time and covered in dust like the ebony desk in his bedroom.)

"I don't believe it," she protested, hands fisted on her hips.

It was a lie. She believed it. That was the problem, you see. She hadn't been able to find a catch.

He was really leaving.

"I made a deal with your friends, love," he said, eyes focused on the boxes piled up in the back of his cars, purposefully avoiding her eyes. "I'm learning not to go back on my word."

She puffed. Now he was doing the honourable thing.

She muttered to herself, "Whatever," turning away and ready to leave him. She hadn't come to say goodbye, after all. She had come to hear _him_say goodbye, but he wasn't even looking at her.

He had made a promised. He wouldn't be pursuing her any longer. He was out of their lives—out of _her_ life. They could rest in peace now. He had said, before, _Don't worry, love. Your dear friends won't have need to use you as mindless bait any longer._ He'd smiled, her heart clenching painfully at the seductive tone trembling beneath the threatening words. Heaven only knows how long I would have stood for that before ripping your heart out.

It might have been a metaphor, for all Caroline could tell. He always meant to steal her heart away.

* * *

_when the lights go up_;

-o-

He doesn't offer his condolences for the death of her mother, and she thanks the gesture with a tight-lipped smile. Instead he says, with a devious grin, "I wasn't expecting you so soon, sweetheart." His eyes shine bright, a darker shade of blue than she remembers, and for a second or two she's overwhelmed by the urge to knot her fingers in the cotton of his dark gray shirt and pull him closer.

Bite his mouth until he bleeds into her—hoping it might heal her.

He knows; he makes it obvious in the way he looks at her, and nods into her eyes like he can tell the deepest secrets of her soul just by smiling the right way. He has eyes on her, watch-men watching her. It comes as an unexpectedly warm sort of comfort—that he's finding it not so easy either, letting go.

(Would she be crept out, if he knew of the hundreds—thousands—of sketches of her face that he has burned in a little under two years? Or would she be flattered? Would her heart pound in her chest the way the hunger pounds in his?)

She takes her drink to her mouth, bitter and searing, and forces herself to stare right back at him. "And I wasn't expecting the king to be mingling. I thought I'd be summoned."

He smirks, dangerous and unaffected—strangely familiar. "So you came to see me."

A younger, slightly less broken Caroline would have _duh-ed_ at him because, really—what the hell she's doing in New Orleans if not finding him? Or rather, letting herself be found. No hunting needed this time around. She came willing and well prepared.

A quick look at the bar lets her know that everyone is looking at them, as hard as they all try to conceal their inquisitive gazes. No one dares stare, of course. Caroline figures only she has the cheek to look the king in the eye, unafraid that he may behead her for her trespassing. It makes her wonder, and she directly asks him because she isn't here to do avoidance anymore, "Aren't you afraid that having your minions see you picking up a girl in a bar might be slightly detrimental to your infamous reputation?"

He chuckles; his eyes soften as if they could melt, and Caroline's stomach lurches. "I'm no king, Caroline," his lips twitch. "And I pick up girls in bars all the time."

She doesn't let that catch her off-guard. She cares of course—she's jealous of every girl he has ever tasted, but just a tiny bite from him would kill her. She hasn't forgotten who's standing only two inches away. So she lets it pass, as if unnoticed. "That's not what we've heard back home."

She means about his kingdom, not his girls, and he's graceful enough to save the tactless joke. He also doesn't mention that she said _home_, a bigger lie for her than him, now.

(But both houses still wait—empty, hollow and haunted. Collecting dust and fluff and garbage.)

Funny how the place only went darker after he left.

"You know how it goes, sweetheart," he says after he steals a sip from her drink. Faster than she can register he takes her hand and pulls her off the stool, dragging her towards the door without even asking for permission. He doesn't want it and he doesn't need it, but still he throws a smile back at her before pulling her out into the crammed street. "Come see, Caroline. There aren't many things in this world as exhilarating as a midnight walk across the _Vieux Carré_."

She scoffs at the pedantry of his French, and shakes her head as she follows him into the crowd that crams Bourbon Street.

The drumming noises of hundreds of heartbeats pandering at the same time, harmonizing to the frantic music seeping out of the bars and houses—it's intoxicating. The low notes of a nearby saxophone pour into her bloodstream, thick as velvet. It awakens her appetite, and she can't help but hope that they'll make a quick stop for a bite, before he takes her to his new home.

* * *

_the sun has nearly gone down_;

-o-

He grabbed her arm before she could flash out the driveway of the Mikaelson mansion, his other hand holding the car door open to make it clear, he wouldn't keep her long.

"I will see you again," is all he said.

She frowned at the strange wording; the strange manner of his affection. Somehow he seemed to recognize she didn't much care about never seeing him again, so he only spoke of himself.

_I will see you again._

It wasn't the goodbye she had been expecting when she'd come. She had been pretty much ready for another grand speech about the day she'd come unstuck out of her little insignificant small town life and decide to run to him, let him show her all the wonderful things the world has to offer. Great cities and art and music and genuine beauty, he said once. One day, he said, some other time.

Well, _one day_ they would talk.

Forever is a long time.

So she nodded at him, agreeing to hold him to his promise; and he let her go before getting in the car and driving away to New Orleans to become the true king of the world of darkness.

She would see him again. One day.

There was comfort in the certainty.

* * *

_let him fall_;

-o-

The hustle and bustle of the French Quarter fades gently as they move upriver, until the deep thundering noises of the people and their songs and their blood pumping through their bodies are but a distant echo reverberating around the silent spot where they stand, hands clasped, eyes fixed on the front door of his colonial mansion.

He lives in a fucking plantation house.

She can't help herself as she raises an eyebrow, "Seriously?"

He doesn't even have the decency to shrug as he moves forward to open the front door, not even casting a quick glance at her when he says, non-committal, "Rebekah has a new beau, as usual, so be at ease. No risk of running into any familiar faces."

Well—

—she can only hope that the _un_familiar faces waiting inside are their very late dinner.

* * *

_turn him over in your hands_;

-o-

It feels natural as breathing, licking the fresh warm blood up the woman's throat before rolling her tongue into his mouth, finally fisting her hands in his chest and pulling him close. It's another kind of blood-sharing—tasting the panting girl on his tongue as he kisses her hard and deep, the adrenaline of their feeding boiling in synch under their skin.

This isn't exactly seeing the world, but she has enjoyed her walk around the first worldly city she has ever been to.

She's still enjoying it—until the very second when he pulls away with a tireless smile, his hand heavy and irresistible on her shoulder as he pushes her back. She lets him do because it's not like she can fight him anyway. There's no judgement in his glistening yellow eyes, at least, and she's thankful for that. No condescending comments about the way certain things come to change. No lame attempts at being falsely sympathetic.

She might kiss him again just for that.

But _can't_, as it happens. He's leaning on the couch, keeping away from her. His eyes are going back to dark-blue as he whispers, "You are delicious."

She doesn't make a move to get closer, even though she wants to. Instead she offers her ripped wrist to the girl lounging limp between them, and smiles at her almost politely when she recovers and stands up, one quick wink to Klaus before she leaves the room without a word. (For a second Caroline regrets that the girl has walked, satisfied and uncompelled—

—she has heard about this nasty kind of girl, and the sort of things that gets them off.)

She is burning inside out with want but there is no mistaking Klaus's hard-edged body language. He might respect her enough to spare her an empty speech about losing your way much too soon—she's walked this earth for only twenty years, and he has lived forever—and doing so for all the wrong reasons, but that only means that he won't play into any of her games, either. Not even those he wants a great deal more than she will ever admit to wanting herself.

He tells her for good measure, "You're not here to sleep with me, Caroline." He's not the kind of man to shy away from blunt words. "I'm not an itch you can scratch so easily, love."

Caroline, however, has to fight hard not to look away. She should be offended that he even thought—

—she doesn't want to scratch him away.

Brand new blood is rushing through her veins and there's a war raging at home and the fucking wolves have eaten her mom. She really could do with a bit of southern comfort.

And when she says _south_, she means _hell_.

She knows what she's asking for. She knows he isn't going to relent so easily. Maybe that's why she came, after all. Funny how he left her and her town and now they are all dying in his goddamned stupid war—and not even a glamorous one that has been going on for millennia, no. The supernatural equivalent of a bar fight he picked against the species that he's spent the best part of the last two years massacring. Isn't he a wolf, too? Pity—

—they never wanted him.

She tries one last time, just in case. "I will not survive," she says, and it sounds firm and strong as a promise.

The battlefront hasn't reached him yet—might never do—but there's so little that still remains standing of their little town. He left and without the evil king, the people plunged down into annihilating one another. Everything he touches falls apart—no surprise there. His family. The town where it all started, for him and for her, a thousand years apart. The entire werewolf species—for so long fighting extinction. Herself, she is sure—if only he reaches over and moves closer on the couch.

_I will not survive._

The smile falls from his face violently, like he's throwing it against the wall in a temper tantrum. "You will," he assures her, and by God it sounds like blood-chilling threat. "You will if you stay with me."

She doesn't hesitate for a second, but her voice falters beneath the weight of the genuine fear in her words. "If I stay, I am lost."

She sounds younger, just like that. Younger even than the Caroline he knew. What was that thing he never said about losing one's way much too soon? Maybe her dad was right all along. She will never be okay again and right now, she isn't feeling like she can handle not-okay forevermore.

Klaus narrows his eyes at her, at last moves closer, snaring her arm in the iron grip of his hand. "You're not here to say goodbye either, Caroline."

She manages to roll her eyes, and struggles to get him off. It doesn't work, of course, but the harder she fights, the nearer he gets to losing the poised composure she resents so much. Really. She's not here to drag him into bed and she's not here to cut off loose ends—the fuck she's here for then? Without thinking she leans in and crashes her lips to his—because _she's not here to say goodbye_, he commanded—her tongue quickly tracing the ridge of his teeth as she moves to sit on her knees, taking advantage of his momentary state of distraction to push him back and straddle him.

She rolls her hips down against him, her hands grasping desperate at his short curls to keep his head in place when he tears his mouth away. "I thought we had agreed, sweetheart—"

She cuts him off with a kiss, a hard one that draws blood with just the slightest pierce of her blunt teeth. She sucks on it for the second it pours out, hot and exhilarating before it heals as if by magic. "Is this how _hard_ you're gonna try to convince me to stay?" She underlies her sultry words with a forceful jerk of her hips against his crotch, and as his eyes widen in shocked arousal she actually smiles, big and genuine, and it's the first time she'd done that in a very long while. "Haven't you missed me at all?"

He has.

It's his tongue in her mouth then. His hips rocking up against hers as his left arm circles her waist to keep her pressed tight against him. His right hand crawls beneath her shirt, fingers teasing, drawing goose-bumps until the heel of his hand is resting on the swell of her breast, his thumb barely grazing her nipple once, twice, three times before it begins circling, zigzagging, doodling as he would on a sketchpad.

Putty in his rough hands after only seconds, she moans out his name, soft and broken. In a flash they're up the stairs and he's pinned her down on a soft hard bed that she only hopes it's his; deft fingers are unbuttoning her shirt, pulling up her skirt—the tips curling without warning into her underwear just enough to brush her skin before pulling it down her legs. He stops kissing her only long enough to whisper in her ear, "You will never leave me now."

It's difficult, coming back to reality from the cloud she's floating on. She does it with a laugh—loud and jingly as it pours out of her throat unrestrained, her legs wrapping around his waist on pure instinct as she takes off his shirt. "You're that good, huh?" For all she can phantom, he's simply warning her that he won't ever allow her to leave him now, but still—it's not goodbye, and it's not an itch she can scratch away.

She knows the rules.

There's a war going on outside, and she doesn't remember the last time she felt alive like she feels now—his mouth dropping open-mouthed kisses as he slides down her stomach, handfuls of her skirt rolled up around her hips as he disappears underneath her clothes. The flat of his tongue, pressed hard and unrelenting against her, is burning her flesh off. She can feel herself disappear, boiling blood cursing through her veins right beneath the tight grip of his fingers around her thighs. He matches the strokes of his tongue to the drumming of her heart, and when he curls a skilful finger inside, just one, his lips closing over each bump of flesh—

—her lungs fill up with air, and she lets it all out with a dry cry.

When she opens her eyes he's lying on top of her again, combing her hair away from her face. He's smiling like a goof, so she kisses him again, happy and lazy, muffled squeaks rippling from her throat as his thumb replaces his tongue beneath the bundles of her skirt. She has trouble understanding while she's still half-dressed, but she'd rather let him do.

He nips her upper lip, his teeth only tickling her before he pulls his head up. "We should go dancing," he says with a grin, and the way his busy fingers twitch against her she thinks maybe _go dancing_ is an old British slang for something else. So she nods just in case, squirming under his weight as her lids fall heavy with bliss. He drops a hot kiss in the crook of her shoulder, his tongue scorching her sensitive skin while his fingers move unyielding, slipping in and sliding up, again and again and again. "I know a jazz place that will make your toes curl."

Her toes do curl.

The low vibrations of his deep voice flow warm as the girl's blood through her veins and her whole body fizzes with pleasure. She runs her hands up and down his back; it's affectionate, but she can't bring herself to care. Instead she sighs loudly when his mouth glides down, biting the soft cotton of her bra. "Tomorrow, my queen," he whispers then, a hot puff of air caressing her chest.

Yes, she nods. "Please," she begs.

His fingers press deep inside her, and a thought so wide and white overcomes her that she almost doesn't notice—

—that it is _tomorrow_ she is begging for.

-o-

_God save the King of New Orleans_;

**- better than Ezra.**

.end

* * *

**Thank you for reading! I hope you liked it!**


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